When Irish Eyes Are Smiling or The Kindly Light
by LittleMender
Summary: She stood and gave him a tug, and he followed her onto the dance floor.  A few steps in, he stopped and pulled her back to him, and she drifted into his embrace. Installment #4 in the Holiday/Next Time Series.


_**AN IRISH PRAYER**_

**Dear Lord,**

**Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am, and keep ever burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. And though I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me to be thankful for life, and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet. And may the evening's twilight find me gentle still.**

**Number 4 in the Holiday/Next Time Series**

WHEN IRISH EYES ARE SMILING (or THE KINDLY LIGHT)

Jane wasn't sure about this.

It was St. Patrick's Day—their "next time". Somehow he and Lisbon had fallen into a pattern of spending holidays together. They never coordinated it, never gave one another notice or reminder. It always seemed to simply come together, the occasion always happening upon them where they were. On Christmas Eve, Jane had chanced to find Lisbon crying alone in the bullpen after she lied about going to Chicago to spend the holidays with family. Jane had issued an impromptu invitation to a late Christmas Eve supper, but Lisbon had characteristically refused, asking him for a rain check. Making certain she would cash in said check, he had tried to plan a special New Year's Eve out, but his scheme was derailed by a murder case that cropped up early in the day, and they had ended up taking in the fireworks show over the river.

Their next "next time" had been something altogether different. Though the experience had ended on a positive note, Valentine's Day had been a real eye opener. Lisbon had never been so angry with him before or since, though it was not for his lack of trying. And she had not gone to any effort to keep her temper in check out of guilt for the tongue lashing she had given him. Quite the opposite. Her tirade on their previous holiday together seemed to have loosened her tongue like something unleashed from a pit. This afternoon even Hightower had stood as if shell shocked as Lisbon called everything from Jane's intelligence to his origins to his manhood into question. It had been brutal.

He was positive she had nearly swallowed her tongue trying not to laugh at least twice.

He wasn't sure what she was up to, but she had said terrible things he knew she didn't mean and would never have meant to say, no matter how angry she was. They were in the middle of a case the higher-ups wanted solved yesterday. The truth was, they were out of leads, and even though there was nothing else constructive they could do for the evening, Hightower—feeling the hot breath of bureaucracy on her neck—had doggedly insisted they stay. After her abusive outburst, Lisbon had strode at full speed toward the elevator, Hightower stopping Van Pelt from running after her with a stunned and breathless "Let her go."

Two minutes later, Jane's phone had vibrated in his pocket, and when he checked the incoming text, _"Sulk on your couch for 5 then meet me around the corner"_, he understood what she had done. When he rounded the building, she was leaning against her car waiting for him, fitted black scooped-neck tee tucked into very fitted dark boot-cut jeans, her hair blowing in the warm breeze of the Sacramento Spring. Her smile was slightly sheepish, but her voice was confident.

"You know I only meant about half of that, don't you?"

"Really? Which half?" he asked with a playful whine.

She laughed as she got into the car. Jane tossed his jacket into the back seat, noting her bag that must have been secreted there earlier in the day, and dropped into the passenger seat next to her. As they pulled away from the curb he repeated, "Really . . . Which half?"

She only laughed again as she turned at the corner.

"So, where are we off to?" After the Valentine's Day blow-up, Lisbon had been very nearly asleep when she had agreed that their "next time" would be St. Patrick's Day, so he hadn't expected anything. But it was obvious that she had a very specific place in mind.

"It's a surprise." She widened her eyes at him on the last word.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Agent Teresa Lisbon?"

"What. I can plan a surprise."

"Yes, but a surprise _and_ an underhanded, deceitful escape from your boss and your duty? And leaving your team members behind to boot? Tsk, tsk, Lisbon. I fear I've had a detrimental effect on your moral composition."

"Oh, please. You haven't had any effect on me at all. Do you seriously think this is the first time I've played hooky?"

"Only the first time in about twenty years."

"Says you."

"You mean you've escaped from work before, under false pretenses, using nefarious means . . . and you've never taken me with you?"

"I didn't want you slowing me down."

"Slowing— . . . Woman, do you _forget_ to whom you're speaking?"

She laughed again and turned the radio up loud, the sounds of The Corrs wafting out the window like the tendrils of her dark chestnut hair. She drove northeast away from the CBI to a neighborhood of old commercial buildings that had been renovated into flats and shops and restaurants around a few decades-old businesses, like Ginger Jack's, the Irish pub they were walking toward now.

And that's what he wasn't sure of. He had very little knowledge of anything Irish—with the exception of Lisbon. He appreciated the culture, but even though he had more than his fair share of the gift of the blarney, he wasn't exactly certain how he would fit in with and enjoy the company of burly Irishmen throwing back stout and belting out drinking songs.

Lisbon walked confidently into the pub, Jane following her into the unfamiliar territory. He had the distinct feeling that he was on her turf now and didn't know how comfortable he was with that. The tinkling bell above the door announced their arrival, and the barkeep looked up, lifting his chin to her in recognition. She returned the gesture and held up two fingers. Nodding in understanding at the silent message, the big man put down the tumbler he was drying and slapped the bar towel over his shoulder.

They made their way to a table against the wall that was fairly close to a stage elevated about seven inches off the main floor, partially concealed by a heavy blood-red curtain. It was obvious the stage was used regularly, and Jane briefly contemplated exactly what kind of entertainment an Irish pub named Ginger Jack's would offer on St. Patrick's Day. He wouldn't want to hurt Lisbon's feelings, but if they went all "Lord of the Dance", he was out of there.

They had just sat down when their waitress approached bearing two bottles of a golden liquid labeled as Harp Lager and one iced pilsner.

"How's it goin', Teresa?"

"Good, Lauren. How's it with you?"

"Can't complain. Looks like you've got no reason to either," she said jerking her head toward Jane with a smirk. Lisbon couldn't help smiling against the rim of the bottle as she raised it to her lips. She hadn't missed Jane's fleeting expression of surprise and discomfiture quickly followed by a smug smile and slight shake of his head. Lauren sauntered back to the bar to pick up a sandwich order for another table.

Jane started to pour the drink into the pilsner but noticed that no glass had been brought for Lisbon. It was obvious she was a regular, and they had brought her "the usual"—lager sans glass. He watched her take a long pull from her bottle and pushed the glass away, raising his own ice-cold drink. The taste was bitter, and he could feel the grimace pull at his lips as he lowered the bottle back to the table. Lisbon was watching him with a combination of amusement and uncertainty. His face relaxed as the finish came through, smooth and solid.

"Wasn't sure there for a minute, but that's pretty good."

Lisbon smiled and relaxed beside him.

"So, what's good to eat here?"

"Everything. Depends on what you fancy."

He didn't know if it was the atmosphere of the place or the occasion or the lager or a combination of all three, but Lisbon was starting to sound decidedly Irish. They looked over the menu card on the table, and within minutes Lauren was back accompanied by a man with thick, black hair and bright sea-blue eyes, streaks of ginger red mingling with the black of his close-trimmed beard. Lisbon introduced him as Jack McDaid, the pub's owner. McDaid was about Jane's height, but barrel chested and strong. He was born in Ireland but had lived in the States most of his life. His brogue was light, and his handshake was firm, and the interest in his eyes when he looked at Lisbon was unmistakable.

"Teresa, it's good ta see ya. I was hopin' ya'd stop by."

She looked up at him with laughing eyes and an easy smile.

"Wouldn't miss it, Jack. Full bill tonight?"

"Full as we can hold and then some. Hope ya wore your dancin' shoes."

"I don't know if I'll do any dancing, but I don't mind telling you it's been a long day, and I could do with a bit of food."

"Well, then what'll ya have? Your wish is my command."

Jane watched their conversation in amazement. Mostly he watched Lisbon. He rarely saw her interact with anyone but cops and criminals, victims and witnesses, suspects and bureaucrats. While he saw no indication she was attracted to McDaid, it was obvious she liked him very much and felt at ease with him. He wondered what it would be like to have her look at him like that and smile so easily without his having to work to wheedle it out of her. While he enjoyed the challenge, especially after the pleasure of driving her to fits of anger, to have her just turn and . . .

He shook himself mentally. Why should it matter how she looked at him? Or how she looked at another man for that matter? They had their own way together. And why should _that_ matter? He frowned at the near empty bottle in his hand. Maybe the lager was getting to him. He needed to eat. He realized Lisbon was ordering for him.

"I'll have the Dublin coddle, and my friend will have the shepherd's pie."

"Coddle and pie it is. And I'll send Lauren over with a couple more lagers, if ya like."

"Just one lager, Jack. And a glass of cabernet?"

"As ya wish, darlin'."

Lauren came back with another Harp's for Lisbon and a cabernet for Jane. A few minutes later, their food was served. Jane took a tentative bite of his shepherd's pie. He'd had it before—thick, meaty and hearty. But this pie was made with a different twist. The mashed potatoes that covered it were flavored with roasted garlic, and the tender beef was cooked in a marsala sauce. Perfect with the cabernet.

The meal passed pleasantly in the now crowded and noisy pub, the two of them teasing back and forth, Jane occasionally stealing a bite of Lisbon's coddle, and Lisbon feigning shock and irritation. When they were finished and the dishes were cleared, the larger industrial lights overhead dimmed, leaving each table illuminated almost entirely by a pool of candlelight.

Jack McDaid moved to a mic stand on the main floor at one side of the stage as Lauren pulled back the heavy red curtain. Three young men took their places on the raised platform.

"Ladies and gentlemen, many returns of the day!"

The patrons raised their glasses and bottles, calling out in pleasant response.

"Let's get to it, then. First up . . . Rory Shannon." Jane tensed momentarily. He really didn't care for Celtic music. A tall, young man with a shock of coal black hair had settled behind the drums, and a small fine-boned blonde that didn't look more than seventeen had strapped on a bass guitar that hung low on his thighs. A third, not so tall as the drummer, with full, dark auburn hair pulled back in a low ponytail took center stage and leaned against more than sat on a tall stool. He shifted the black electric guitar into the notch that had formed in his body from years of playing and without count or any other sign to one another, the three began in sync. Jane sat transfixed in silent surprise as the guitarist began to sing in a rich raspy voice.

_Thrill is gone  
__The thrill is gone away  
__The thrill is gone, baby  
__The thrill is gone away  
__You know you done me wrong, baby  
__And you'll be sorry some day_

A perfect rendition of B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone" is not what Jane had expected. But judging by the reactions of the people around him, no one else was surprised. He stole a glance at Lisbon. Her fingers still curved around her lager, just touching the cool glass with their tips. As she listened and gently relaxed into the music, her lips curved into a dreamy smile.

_The thrill is gone  
__It's gone away from me  
__The thrill is gone, baby  
__The thrill has gone away from me_

The smoky ballad continued with its mournful lament then went into an instrumental interlude. Over the blues harmonies, the guitarist picked out a new melody that Jane recognized as an Irish song he'd heard somewhere—an old movie or another pub probably. Lisbon joined other patrons in quiet, appreciative laughter, a few applauding softly. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"'Erin Shore'," she said in answer to his unspoken question, and he realized why it sounded familiar—a track from the CD that had played in Lisbon's car, performed as a blues tribute to a traditional Celtic song in honor of the day.

Rory Shannon did 3 more numbers—two of them R & B—and Fiona James took his place accompanied by drums, bass and piano and singing some of the most powerful blues Jane had ever heard. A few couples had stepped onto the dance floor, their bodies swaying to the groove of the music. But when Fiona started a warm and slow rendition of "All of Me"**,** Jane was transported back to another time. An old woman who had worked the carnival when he was just starting out with his father had an ancient record player and a small but prized collection of 78's. She was third generation carnie. She could barely stand and only worked behind the scenes, but when she would play Billie Holliday singing that song and dance across the grass barefoot with her colorful caftan floating around her, Jane could see what she must have been like as a young girl, dancing and laughing in whatever speak-easy or club she could find in the towns through which she traveled.

_All of me  
__Why not take all of me?  
__Can't you see  
__I'm no good without you?  
__Take my lips, I wanna lose them  
__Take my arms, I never use them_

"I used to love this song."

"Hm?" Lisbon tore her attention from the stage to look at him, amused and interested. He was smiling into his glass, his voice low and soft, wrapped in memory.

"An old lady with the carnival used to play it on down days. She would dance . . . like she was floating, remembering happy times."

"You love this song?"

"I love this song."

She slid her hand, palm up, under his where it rested on the table, grasping and lifting it at the same time. She stood and gave him a tug, and the next thing he knew, he was following her onto the dance floor. A few steps in, he stopped, and she turned toward him. He pulled her back to him, and she drifted into his embrace, his free arm almost completely encircling her slender waist. He pulled his head back just enough to be able to look her in the eye.

"No funny stuff." He smiled down at her.

"Really?" she asked him with a half smirk as if she didn't think he was serious. She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder and he rested his cheek against her hair. Sometimes he thought it a major failing, but other times—like right now—he really liked it that she remembered every single word that had ever passed between them.

_Your good-byes  
__They left me with eyes that cry  
__How can I get along without you?  
__You took the part  
__That once was my heart  
__So why not take all of me?_

They danced without speaking for a minute then Jane turned his face into her hair to ask her something he had wondered about earlier, careful to keep his voice warm and low lest he break whatever spell had Lisbon relaxed to the point of practically melting in his arms.

"How did you find an Irish pub that's a blues and R & B venue?"

Lisbon did not feel the need to open her eyes for the sake of conversation. If she kept them closed, she felt like she was floating.

"I investigated Jack's late wife's murder eight years ago. Been coming here ever since."

"Did you catch the guy?"

"Yep. And it was a woman." She answered lightly, eyes still closed.

"Really," he said in his best do-tell voice.

"Yep. Her best friend once upon a time. They had a falling out."

"Over what?"

"Over Jack."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

_All of me  
__Why not take all of me?  
__Can't you see  
__I'm a mess without you?_

"Jack still single?"

"For now."

He pulled back to look at her questioningly. She felt the movement and looked up at him. It took a moment for her to realize what he was thinking.

"Oh, stop. He's been through number two _and_ number three in the last five years."

_You took the part  
__That once was my heart  
__So why not take all of me?_

"So you think he's looking for Mrs. McDaid number four?"

"That's Jack. He loves getting married."

"I bet I know where he's looking."

"Where?"

He looked at her pointedly.

"_What?_" she asked in high-pitched disbelief.

"No." Her voice dropped a full octave.

"Oh, yes, my dear. Those blue peepers were definitely dilated."

She scowled. "Well, he can keep his peepers to himself."

He laughed at her and pulled her back flush against him. The song ended and the singer segued smoothly into "Can't Help Lovin' That Man". Her head went back to its place on his shoulder. With an impish grin, he turned his face back into her hair.

"We could let him know he needs to look elsewhere." She tensed immediately in his arms.

"Jane?" The note of apprehension was unmistakable.

"Relax, woman. It won't take much—just a few subtle but well-placed hints."

"Jane, I really like this place. Please don't make it impossible for me to ever come back here again."

He chuckled and, turning his face, half-whispered, "Trust me," against her temple. She'd heard him say it a thousand times but not in _quite_ that voice . . .

He drew her hand that he was holding up around and to the back of his neck, pressing it in place there. His now free hand moved around her waist and stroked up and down her back even as his other arm that still encircled her pulled her more firmly against him. He lowered his head until he was nearly nuzzling her neck. He looked up through his eyebrows and was pleased to see the look of resignation on McDaid's face. _Ah, success_. Knowing Lisbon would be relieved, he fully intended to whisper the news into her ear, but oddly, he lingered where he was for a while. Then, for some reason completely unbeknownst to him, he lowered his head and turned his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin there and exhaling, low and warm through his mouth.

"Um . . . Jane? I think it worked." Her voice shook only a little.

"Hm?"

"Jack's gone. He went back into the kitchen. We can stop now."

"Oh. Right. See, Lisbon? I told you. Subtle and well placed."

He stepped away from her as the song was ending. But then, on a second thought fueled by a surprisingly irresistible urge, he captured one of her hands in his, twirled her around and lowered her into a dip so deep that her head fell back, his gaze eye level with the base of her throat as he hovered over her. He held her there for four slow beats until the last chord ended, giving himself just enough time to close his eyes and lean in to inhale her scent once more. When he pulled her up, she looked at him, smiling brightly, her eyes alight with pleasure. He paused for just a moment, committing the sight of her in that instant to memory.

As Fiona began a throaty—and slightly angry—version of "I Heard It through the Grapevine", Jane pulled on Lisbon's hand as he turned away from her, and she reluctantly accepted the fact that they needed to leave the dance floor.

"You should probably call Cho. Just to check in."

"Yeah."

She caught Lauren's eye and motioned toward the bar. The waitress nodded and walked around to meet them. They settled the bill, bickering over who would pay and finally agreeing to an even split before they stepped out in the cool night air. Lisbon called Cho only to discover that Hightower had sent the rest of the team home shortly after she and Jane had fled the building.

"Sorry I ditched on you."

"No problem. You really pulled it off."

"Pulled what off?"

"The con. You even had Jane going for a few seconds."

"How'd you know?"

"I didn't. Not until you texted him."

"And that tipped you off how?"

"First of all, there's no such thing as coincidence. Second, you would never say that stuff to Jane and mean it. And third, he smiled when he saw who the text was from."

"What's that got to do with it?"

She could almost hear him shrug over the phone.

"He only smiles at a text when it's from you."

She got the funniest feeling, just for a couple of seconds, deep in her throat, almost in her chest.

"Okay. Thanks, Cho. See you tomorrow."

"Happy St. Patrick's Day, Boss."

"You, too."

She flipped her phone shut and hit unlock on her key chain remote. Jane needed to go back to the CBI to pick up his car or—what was more likely—spend the night in the attic. They rode the whole way in silence.

Jane was lost in thought, wondering just what had gotten into him. He had taken such liberties. And Lisbon didn't even realize. He had been so presumptuous, as if he had a right, as if it weren't forbidden for him to do such things. To _feel_ such things.

He was so quiet, sitting there and staring down at his hands folded in his lap, his brow furrowed. She worried that something had happened, that she had done something to upset him. When she laid her hand on his arm, he started, flinching as if she had hurt him. She withdrew her hand from him and put it back on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, feeling a sense of desolation as if she had lost something sweet and tenuous that she hadn't even realized she had held in her possession.

She pulled into the CBI parking lot and nearly just let him off at the door, not wanting to pretend that she thought he might be spending the night somewhere else. At the last minute she remembered she had left her jacket in her office and wheeled into a parking space instead.

At some point after she had touched him, Jane had been able to calm himself and rationalize what had happened. He took the evening and sliced it up into nicely manageable pieces and put them away in their proper compartments one by one. It had been a long time since he had held a woman so closely. As a matter of fact, Lisbon had been that woman, and on more than one occasion. And it had been years before that—not since his wife. The headiness of the clandestine getaway, the lager and then that excellent cabernet, the delicious food, the atmosphere of the place, her laughter, the music and the charade to throw off McDaid—all had culminated in a moment of pure and simple weakness. He didn't need to think anything of it. He knew Lisbon wouldn't. He would just keep his guard up a bit better, put it behind him and in a few days the memory and feeling would fade and everything would be back to normal. Back to the usual at any rate. They didn't really do normal.

They walked into the building in silence until the elevator doors closed on them.

"I want to thank you for a lovely evening, Lisbon. I have to say this is one of the most enjoyable St. Patrick's Days I've ever experienced."

She recognized a save when she saw one.

"Thought you might want to try something different."

"Oh, it was. Nothing like a bit of treachery, deceit and gross insubordination topped off with good food and music." He turned to look down at her. "And company."

She smiled in a mixture of relief and pleasure, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were shining again. It pleased him to have won that smile twice in one night without really having to earn it. When they reached their floor, he waited for her by the elevator holding the door while she walked to her office to collect her jacket. As she came back toward him, he realized something that had managed to escape his attention all day. He reached over and pinched her on the outside of her arm, just above the elbow.

"Ow! What was _that_ for?" she demanded, rubbing the offended flesh as she stepped into the elevator and turned to him with a scowl.

"You're not wearing green."

Offering him a wicked and teasing smile, she reached out and punched the button for the first floor.

"Actually, Jane . . . I am." Just before the elevator door slid closed between them, she turned her head ever so slightly and gave him a saucy wink.

He stood rooted to the spot, staring at where that wink held his line of vision. Nothing had been said about "next time". He thought that might not be a bad thing.

**END**

_A/N: I don't know about other places, but where I grew up in the Midwest a kid got pinched if they didn't wear green on St. Patrick's Day. Next up in this series. . . Easter!_


End file.
